Heaven Looks a Lot Like Marc Jacobs New Spring Collection
by TheyCantTouchUsOrWhatWeHave
Summary: Kurt Hummel is dead. And things are great. Heaven looks a lot like the mall, the angels are cute boys, and best of all: there's nobody else. When an angel named Blaine takes him on a tour down memory lane, will Kurt find the will to live again? T for violence, language and death.


**Title: **Heaven Looks a Lot Like Marc Jacobs New Spring Collection  
**Author: **TheyCantTouchUsOrWhatWeHave (Lexi)  
**Word Count: **1, 809  
**Disclaimer: **The Glee characters are not mine (sadly); they belong to RIB and Fox. Based off of the esteemed Wendy Mass's "Heaven Looks a Lot Like the Mall"  
**Summary: **Kurt Hummel is dead. And things are great. Heaven looks a lot like the mall, the angels are cute boys, and best of all: there's nobody else. When an angel named Blaine takes him on a tour down memory lane, will Kurt find the will to live again?

**Enjoy ~**

* * *

"_See how many you can catch. Grasp them tight in your hand, now, don't let them get away." _

"_They tickle, mommy."_

"_I know, sweetie. They like your hand and they're giving your palm tiny kisses."_

"_Why isn't this one glowing? Did I hurt it?" _

"_Oh, no, honey. Let go. See? It started glowing again. It's happy now."_

"_Didn't it want to stay with me? Didn't the little firefly like my hand?"_

"_Sometimes it's best to let things go. In that moment of freedom is when they shine the brightest."_

"_I don't want you to go, mommy."_

"_I don't want to go either, Kurt."_

* * *

For some reason, this is the memory that pops into my head as I stare straight into the oncoming red sphere. But that's all I do. Stare. I don't duck, or make any sort of movement to avoid the dodge ball as it soars closer, seemingly stuck in slow motion. Why aren't I ducking? Any normal person's first instinct would be to do so.

Instead, I stand completely still as everything else begins to move farther away from my motionless form. And then I'm not_ me _anymore. I'm watching a sixteen year old boy with coiffed light brown hair get hit brutally with a bright red dodge ball. It smacks profoundly against his cheek and he falls backwards before colliding with the ground. His head creates a solid _crack! _against the filthy gym floor.

There's a beat and then the others notice the boy has fallen. A girl in particular seems especially distraught as she kneels beside him and cries for help. Her mahogany-colored hair is parted neatly in two petite pigtails on either side of her face. I'm sure I know her name, she looks familiar. Brief flashes of brilliant solos upon well-lit stages crash through my mind, and then they're gone.

"Out of the way! Move!" A tall woman parts the crowd of students like Moses and the red sea.

A pool of glistening blood has surrounded the boy's head and the woman pales as she catches sight of the catastrophe. "Call an ambulance!" she orders.

The kids dressed in unflattering red and navy P.E. uniforms do nothing as they stand in frozen shock. This is no doubt the most exciting thing to happen since Santana Lopez and David Karofsky were caught having sex in the teachers' lounge.

Who knew a dodge ball could do that much damage?

I know the kid twisted in an uncomfortable position on the floor is me. I know that I'm the one that they're gawking at as the amount of blood continues to grow. But I'm too busy escalating towards the ceiling to care.

I pass the gym ceiling, then the puffs of stormy grey clouds hovering in the sky, and past them, too. Then I've stopped flying as abruptly as I began. I look around in wonder. Polished tile floors reflect the rays of sunlight peaking through a clear, glass roof. The scent of greasy fast food and an abundance of different perfumes and colognes suffocate me.

Am I dead? Is this…the afterlife? Because this looks more like the Lima, Ohio Mall.

I'm standing in front of the information booth. There's not another soul in sight. I've imagined what death would be like before. An endless white landscape perched atop a cloud, with glimmering golden castles sparkling in the distance. Angels, harps, you know. I never thought it'd be a crappy mall in Ohio.

I decide to ring the bell. Maybe somebody could give me a tour of this whole death thing. I tap my fingers anxiously on the countertop. Is God going to pop out of somewhere? Am I about to get judged? Or maybe I'm getting _Punked!_ and Ashton Kutcher is going to present me with a new car.

When you think about it, it really isn't that strange that heaven turned out to be the mall. I've spent more time here than I've spent anywhere else. Despite the half hour drives it takes to get here, the different shops and people satisfy me for hours. Endless racks of in-style clothing soothe my emotions, and I'm able to loose myself amongst the comforting Alexander McQueen accessories.

Maybe to my father, heaven is the Hummel Tires and Lube shop.

It appears that I am completely alone in the mall. Nobody has heard my continuous bell-ringing, so I decide to roam around. I'm dead. I can take anything I want. Just as I am about to turn to leave, a neon yellow sticky note catches my eye.

"_Kurt Hummel," _I read aloud from the sticky note, "_welcome to the Mall of Heaven._ _Your's sincerely, the Mall Manager."_

I subconsciously reach my hand up to scratch the back of my head in confusion, and my hand comes away bloody. My hair is matted and dried blood clings to each strand. Apparently I'm not dreaming.

Despite the mysterious note, I still wander around the mall for a couple minutes. I stop to stare at some window displays, and help myself to an ice cream behind the Baskin Robbins in the food court. Calories shouldn't matter to the dead.

An unanticipated drowsiness settles upon me. Can the dead get tired? I find a cool mall bench, anyways, and curl up. Hopefully the custodians here in heaven know how to clean a bench better than the ones back at the real mall.

I fall into a light, stressful sleep. I hear severed words like "coma" and "we're not sure" and the heart-breaking sounds of someone sobbing. I try desperately to claw my way through the impending darkness and tell the people that it's going to be okay.

I wake up to a prickly feeling on the back of my neck that alerts me of somebody's impending gaze. I sit up quickly and gaze around in confusion. The mall is still silent. I'm positive the dropping of a pin could be heard from the other side of the mall.

I stand up and dust the germs from the bench off my gym shorts, which I'm distressed to discover I'm still wearing. I'll make my next stop at Alexander McQueen. This hideous attire is making me itch. I spin towards the escalator and nearly scream.

A boy is sitting at one of the food court tables, watching me with gentle hazel eyes and a mop of dark curls shines with the remnants of gel. He seems familiar and completely foreign at the same time. When his stare does not falter, I clear my throat.

"Um…Are you an angel?" I ask tentatively. The sound of my own voice startles me for a minute, shattering the silence.

The boy releases a hearty laugh and jumps off the table top. I realize now that he is shorter than me by a couple of inches, and he's wearing a red sweater and a blue bowtie. I cringe. I had hoped angels would have at least some fashion sense. Above his collar are pads of damp, bloody gauze taped all around his neck like a brace.

"Not even close. I'm Blaine," he says and extends a hand.

I shake it lightly. "Kurt."

Blaine smiles broadly and turns to walk away. I run after him.

"Where are you going?"

"To get your bag," he replies matter-of-factly.

"My bag?" I question, attempting to keep up with his brisk pace.

"Yup."

There's no more conversation after that, and only the sound of our shoes slapping against the marble tiling. A thousand questions race through my mind, washing over me like a tsunami.

At last, Blaine turns into the manager's office. The desk is a mess of disorganized papers and bright orange complaint cards. Half a cup of coffee waits to be drunk.

Blaine reaches underneath the desk and pulls out a massive white trash bag. He winks knowingly at me.

"What…what's in there?" I wonder reproachfully. Perhaps I'm receiving my fluffy angel wings and harp after all.

Blaine holds out the bag and I reach in curiously. I grab the first thing my fingers graze. It's a blue tennis shoe covered in sequins. It's much too small to be mine.

"I didn't buy this," I insist.

"Of course not. Your mom bought it. It's one of the first things you ever took home from the mall," Blaine explains and begins taking out each item from the bag and lining them up neatly on the counter.

I count out twenty-five items in all.

A Ken Barbie doll, a Hello Kitty band-aid, a Broadway book of songs, a cinnamon-scented candle, a yellow baby onesie, a golden token, a "Sorry For Your Loss" Hallmark card, a receipt from Goodwill, a package of sparkly gel pens, a #1 DAD mug, a rusty fishing hook with a rubber worm attached to it, hot pink nail polish, a Wonder Woman wallet, a rainbow piano tie, a black lace bra, the stub of a movie ticket, a black leather handbag, a stream of photos from the photo booth, a diamond ring, a baby blue suede bowtie, a red bendy straw, a snow globe of New York, a baseball bat and a knife with a floral handle.

I realize that I recognize nearly all of the items before me, most of which I haven't thought about in years. "What's the significance of all this?"

Blaine turns and exits hastily. I follow him, annoyed at his lack of explanation. We're walking back along the main hall, various stores zooming by as Blaine picks up pace.

"If I were to ask you to tell me about your life, what would you say?" he wanted to know.

"Um, I'd-"

"You'd tell me a story," Blaine interrupts. "And you'd think it was about you, but it's not. It never was and never will be."

"What?" I cried, taken aback. "It's my life. Isn't the story supposed to be about me?"

There's that mysterious smile of his again. "You're just a pawn in the game of life. You're the main character that the author molds to do his bidding."

"The author being God?" I ask. "You're not getting it." Blaine rounds on me. "All those things - those items - they all meant something. They were choices that you made that lead you here."

"I'm not here because of a choice!" I argued. "I'm here because somebody hit me with a dodge ball."

Blaine poked my shoulder. "Exactly! You could've ducked out of the way and you didn't. It was a choice that _you _made."

"I don't understand."

"But you will. Enjoy your first visit to the Lima, Ohio Mall, Kurt," he says.

"What are you talking about?" My surroundings begin to fade. "Blaine! What's happening?"

Blaine vanishes, as does the rest of the mall. I stand in complete, blinding light. I look down and see that I'm still holding the sparkly blue shoe.


End file.
